A Soldier Like You
by The ObsidianEggplant
Summary: Lavernius Tucker was no hero.
1. Chapter 1

Lavernius Tucker was no hero. He'd always tried to convince himself that he could be, that somewhere deep down he was worth more than some lonely, incompetent idiot stuck in a box canyon in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but bicker over crazy freelancers and broken machinery.

But if he was honest with himself, he wasn't any better than all of that.

It had never really bothered him before, having been surrounded by assholes his whole career. He'd almost laughed at the thought, because heroes weren't something you saw in real life, and definitely not in his situation.

Then Agent Washington came along.

At first, Tucker hated him. He was strict and ruthless and _real, _all things that Tucker had never experienced before.

But _God, _he was kind and smart and brave, just inexplicably _better _than anyone he could've ever hoped to meet.

Then, through the dull _crack _of breaking rock and the rubble that clouded his vision, he saw a hero, clad in steel and yellow and fighting with everything he had for the people he'd come to call friends.

He started thinking of him as 'Wash' after that, rather than 'Agent Washington'.

* * *

Tucker doesn't believe in heroes anymore. He can't, because heroes are supposed to have happy endings.

He can't imagine a happy ending for Wash.

So he doesn't believe in heroes. Instead, he believes in people.

But Wash is more than a person.

He's a _soldier._

The thing is, Tucker's not sure he can figure out what that means anymore.

He doesn't think Wash knows, either.

* * *

He's becoming a little obsessive. The words "Freckles, shake!" echo continuously in his head, a broken record stuck playing on repeat with no one around to fix it. And no one close enough to care.

His waking hours are just as filled with that voice as his dreams are, a never ending background hum that keeps him both focused and distracted.

His thoughts stop being _his thoughts. _He's on a constant mental track of 'What would Wash do?'.

He thinks he understands, now, how it felt when freelancer tore itself apart.

He knows what it's like to miss people.

* * *

He's a captain now. It makes him feel a little better, because at least now he's _doing _something, instead of just sitting around and letting the dread consume him. He's just that tiny bit closer to seeing his friends again.

He's got _hope._

A leader, however, is something he's not.

It's just him and Palomo. He lost the other two, and somewhere deep down, past the part of him that doesn't feel at all, that stings, because he really did try. He put everything he had into this, and he still can't get there.

It's almost too much sometimes.

He knows he doesn't belong here, because he's not built for this, he's not like _him, dammit. _He's not a soldier. He understands now that _can't _be.

All his life, he's told people "I'm a lover, not a fighter".

He sees the truth in that now.

* * *

There's a moment, and he can pinpoint it exactly, where he realizes just how much Wash is to him.

It's late one night, and they've another long day reaching for things that don't seem possible. They're training, but it's not enough, and they all know it.

It becomes a question of what they can hope to do about it.

He's done with it all, a raw, emotional pain locked in his chest. he feels defeated and lost and _lonely, _and he knows he can't take much more of this before he breaks.

Palomo follows him to his room, not daring to say a word. He watches in morbid silence as his captain flings his helmet from over his head and across the room, the sharp _thud _as it made contact with the drywall carrying a finality neither man was prepared for.

Tucker feels his hands start to shake along with his shoulders, silent sobs racking his body. He presses his palms against his eyelids, pulling deep, shuddering breaths through constricted lungs.

A small sound escapes his lips, a choked, whispered scream. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, each pulse a fresh wave of unfiltered agony driven straight to the very finer of his being.

Palomo doesn't touch him, doesn't move any closer, but the words he speaks are bad enough as it is.

"Are you okay?"

It's the worst thing he could think to say, because it's an answer they've never tried to convey out loud before. And neither of them really wanted to try.

Tucker whirls, anger and desperation and _pain _all curled into one. He screams at his lieutenant, because _no, he's not okay, how could he possibly be okay when the only person he's ever really cared about is capture and likely dead?_

He tells Palomo to get out, voice hoarse and rasping, He hears the door shut as his knees hit the floor, one hand held over his mouth in a futile attempt to hold back the low whimpers that form in the back of his throat.

He can't do this. He can't. He's not a soldier, he's fucking _worthless _and _god, he needs Wash more than anything right now._

It's this moment, right here, that Tucker sees this for what it is for the first time.

And just like that, in the span of a second, his whole world comes crashing down around him.

He's in love with Agent Washington.

* * *

For the first few hours after the revelation, he tosses and turns, mind racing as he fights with the surreal concept of sleep. He wishes he could talk to someone, to lighten the weight that hangs over his shoulders, even just for a few minutes.

It's a good while later that he comes to the understanding that everyone already knows.

It's still some time before he realizes what he needs to do.

And by the time he's worked up the courage, there's sunlight streaming through the windows.

* * *

They leave that day. It's abrupt, and they have no room to prepare, but that's okay, because they know that it's the right thing to do.

Tucker doesn't trust himself to drive, so he rides passenger in a jeep with Simmons while Grif takes Caboose.

They stop about four hours in, for some bullshit reason Tucker doesn't pay attention to. He just sits there, trying not to shake and convincing himself that he's not as unstable as everyone knows he is.

He's brought out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder.

His fingers find the clasp under his chin, and he lifts the armour up over his head. Simmons has his helmet off too, a loose strand of red hair falling in his face. They're eyes meet, and through the cloud of emotion in the other man, Tucker sees everything he's feeling. He watches as Simmons' gaze flickered over behind him, and he didn't have to look to know which figure he focused on.

He looks down again, and written in his features are the words 'I understand'.

Tucker makes a soft, strangled noise, and Simmons' hand finds a spot between his shoulder blades and pulls him forwards, his forehead resting against the others' metallic collarbone.

He cries, freely, for the second time that day.

* * *

Alarms blare in the distance, the shrill sound rippling across the snow covered landscape.

Tucker's pulse quickens, finger twitching on the trigger. The low _hiss_ of the door opening is harsh against his mind, almost foreboding in nature.

The metal parts, and he stares down the scope of his rifle, jaw clenching in an anxious reaction.

The sight of steel and yellow makes his knees go weak.

His grip loosens, and it's a miracle he doesn't drop the gun completely.

"Wash?" He asks, voice sounding foreign even to his own ears.

When the first thing he hears is "Tucker?", he almost can't stop the disbelieving sound that hovers in the back of his throat.

The words 'I love you' are on the tip of his tongue, but he can't speak them, because they're not out of this, not yet.

Then Felix betrays them, and that hurts, because suddenly trust is something he can't put his faith in anymore.

There's a gun pointed straight at Wash, and he wonders how long it would take to cover the distance between them. But then Carolina shows up and teleports them to strange place and that's kinda confusing, but also okay because Wash is there, and it really is him, and that's all that matters.

* * *

It takes a while for him to get Wash alone. It's frustrating, but it makes sense. He understands how people would want to stick together after a thing like that.

Of course, it doesn't stop him from jumping at the chance.

So they stand together in the dark, thin twilight casting soft shadows across the barren landscape. A light breeze ripples through the clear air, cooling the evening as it leads into night. Neither man dares to break the silence, eye contact and almost-touch seeming to be enough.

It's Tucker who makes the first move, reaching out a trembling hand to fumble with the clasp on Wash's helmet. The other doesn't protest, just watching as the armour is lifted over his head, and the same is done to the figure before him.

Tucker takes a moment to compose himself, picking a suddenly fascinating spot in the dirt by his right foot and studying it, etching the rough edges in his brain.

Then he looks up, and his breath hitches, taking in the familiar face that stares back at him, blue eyes bright. His blond hair sticks up in all directions, pale freckles dusted across his cheeks and neck. A startled laugh bubbles up inside him, because he's exactly how he'd remembered, a splitting image of a person from another time.

He doesn't laugh. Instead, he cries.

The relief runs through him in waves, tears falling silently down his cheeks. All of a sudden he can't seem to hold himself together, and he's said "I love you" before he can fully realize that he's spoken.

Wash blinks, surprised, and there's a second where nothing moves before he reaches out a slow, delicate hand to rest against the side of Tucker's face, thumb carefully brushing the moisture from his cheek.

Then Tucker whispers his name, looking like he's going to say something, and wash really doesn't want to hear an apology right now, so he does the only thing he can't think to do.

He leans forward and presses their lips together.

The kiss is soft, and hesitant, laced with unspoken emotion and punctuated by the feel of calloused fingers intertwined.

There's a low whistle in the background, and they both nearly jump out of their skin, pulling away immediately.

Donut cheers, a loud "finally!" echoing across the open space.

Tucker shares a meaningful look with Simmons, and Grif tries (and fails) to hide his smile. Carolina sends wash a subtle wink, causing him to flush bright red.

Their eyes meet again, iridescent blue against florescent green, each iris a beacon in the darkness that crowds around them.

Suddenly, everything feels just a little bit lighter.


	2. Chapter 2

**I realize this is confusing so just to clarify this is all in Wash's POV.**

* * *

Something is wrong.

Of that, he is certain. It's just under the surface, a stone out of place under a crashing wave. A slight imbalance, just enough to throw him off kilter.

It's almost too hard to deal with sometimes.

But he gets by.

At least he's home again.

And Tucker. God, Tucker. It feels like forever since he's seen him, really seen him, with his bright, honest eyes and perfect smile.

He hasn't been smiling enough lately.

It's these thoughts that fill his mind in the early hours of the morning, when the silence is so consuming that it gets hard to breathe. He pictures that figure for all that he is, strong and brave and beautiful.

But he knows his memory can't compete with the real image.

Nothing could.

* * *

He's afraid of the dark.

It's a bitter type of irony, the way his mind shuts down over the simple absence of light but stays completely clear in the face of a weapon. He's broken himself down from the inside out, and he's only started to pick up the pieces.

At least this time he's not alone.

He's held together by the light touch of hands across his lower back, soft patterns traced gently over the exposed skin. He can feel hot breath across his cheek, a figure hovering just past coherent reality.

And a voice, whispering careful reassurances in his ear.

There's a pause in the sound, a catch, and he knows what Tucker almost says. It's something he's said before, in a moment of vulnerability in a strange place.

He swallows, hard, and doesn't speak a word.

* * *

He still gets nightmares.

It's a ghost, just a shadow of something it used to be, but every time it's a whole new feeling. Another glimpse of hope that falls into ashes.

Even now, feeling closer to a group of individuals than he's ever felt before, it still haunts him.

No, not a ghost. A curse. A dark spell woven deep into the nature of everything he's become.

And he's still changing.

* * *

When he falls, he falls hard. It's not a soft, easy emotion that deepens over days to become something extraordinary. It's not a quiet understanding in the depths of that night where no one is close enough to notice. No, it hits him all at once, violent and unforgiving, like a hurricane in the middle of a desert; full force with intent to kill.

He closes his eyes, and it all runs through him then, a feather light touch across glass-fragile skin, a stolen moment in passing corridors, a watercolor memory of skin and sweat and heat.

For a split second, he is completely and utterly terrified, shaken to the very core.

Then he smiles.

* * *

No one comments when Tucker leans over and rests his head on Wash's shoulder. No one mentions the sad smile. No one interrupts when he starts talking and doesn't stop.

He talks about Blood Gulch. What it was like to first meet Church and Caboose. How it felt to see Junior for the first time. The way Sister would say the most uncomfortable things with fascinating ease. How long before he figured out Grif and Simmons were a couple.

What it was like to meet Wash for the first time.

He describes it as bittersweet, a chance at meeting someone who was different but not knowing what to do about it. An unexpected turn to an easy situation. Like two worlds shifting against each other until each and every edge had been redifined.

He says he doesn't regret it for a second.

Wash whispers "I love you" in his ear. It's the first time he's said it.

Tucker takes his hand and traces the word "Ditto" across his palm.

He laughs out loud, a simple sound in a silent space, and he'd forgotten how good that feels.

He makes a silent promise with himself to never forget again.

* * *

An enemy soldier follows them from the crash site. His name is Zachary Miller. Wash almost wishes he didn't know. It's easier to take a life when there's nothing attached to it.

It doesn't matter, in the end. They don't kill him.

Wash breathes a silent sigh of relief at that. He doesn't need any more guilt on his conscience.

* * *

He screwed up.

That, at least, is familiar. He just wishes there could've been someone better around to fix his mistake.

Carolina doesn't catch it in time.

The words _"I'm an emotional time bomb"_ echo inside his head, a mantra of guilt and misunderstanding. He hates himself for having to do this, for not having the sense to see this coming.

Epsilon fixes it. But it still stings, deep down.

* * *

Static through the radio. A crackle, and a second of silence that feels much longer than it actually is.

Then a familiar voice.

He offers them a way out. A ship, programmed with the coordinates to a place that could've been home.

t's too good to be true.

Wash believes every word.

He tells the others to leave. It's is a sacrifice he'd always known he'd make.

They don't let him.

His jaw aches from where Tucker hit him. He deserved it, of that he is certain. But it's still difficult.

Mostly because he knows they can't all make it out of this alive.


	3. Chapter 3

It's Tucker's idea.

Of course it is, would he really just stand back while everyone else took the hit? Maybe he's not a fighter, maybe he'll never be, but damn if he's not gonna try. He's living in Wash's footsteps, becoming the broken soldier that he is, one futile battle at a time.

So it's his idea. So he learns to take some responsibility for the first time in his life. So he offers to take on Felix.

And as he stands staring past that visor, orange highlights standing out against the wrong shade of grey,he doesn't regret it, not even as the sadistic mercenary pulls the blade from his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers as he tries with everything he has to keep it together. Epsilon screams something furious inside his head, static covering his thoughts with a thick air. He presses the heel of his hand against the wound, red stained liquid pooling on the dirt surrounding him.

He smiles through the pain, knowing that just the thought of keeping Felix away from Wash for even a second is worth it. He hears Kimball over the radio and knows Church got the message through. He tries to speak, but all he can make is a soft, strangled noise. He can feel the panic streaming off Church in waves, can hear his voice calling to someone whose name or face he can't decipher.

He feels the abrupt impact with the hard ground, head spinning from the blood loss, and lets the darkness envelop him.

* * *

He wakes to the soft hum of machinery, fragments of speech and sound blurring together to become incomprehensible. Flashes of colour dance across his vision, pulsing in time with the ache in his head. A surreal, numb feeling covers his body, a sweet Novocain obscuring the cold spires of agony that drive through his lower abdomen.

Doctor Grey hums quietly as she spins the scalpel between her fingers, carefully tending to Tucker's injuries. She flinches as his fingers curl around her wrist, grip weak with the strain it places on his healing form. He mutters something under his breath, coughing as blood rises in his throat, taking a second to regain his composure before trying again.

"Wash." He whispers, voice raw and rasping, desperation ringing in the phrase. "What...about...Wash?"

Doctor Grey gently takes his hand and rests it on the fabric beside him, soft sigh passing her lips. "He's fine." She lies through her teeth, guilt gathering in her chest at the relieved set of his shoulders.

"Okay." He murmurs, already letting the dark void consume him again. "Okay."

* * *

When Tucker regains consciousness for the final time, Palomo sits next to his bed, tears streaming down his face. He tells him to shut the fuck up, stop crying, I'm fine, seriously.

He's surrounded by white walls, bright lights reflecting off the surfaces of the room like sun from a mirror. The incessant whir of medical instruments drives into his brain, He hates hospitals. Always has, always will. Even as a child, they'd meant death to him, closed corridors of pain and suffering and the shed tears of loved ones.

One by one, each of his friends - associates, really - comes to see him, tired, hopeful smiles the most common sight among them.

He asks about Wash. Doesn't get a straight answer.

Bile rises in his throat, heart pounding in his chest. Panic colours the world in red and what happened why didn't you tell me you said he was okay why would you lie like that?

It's Carolina who takes his hand and tells him they don't know if Wash will make it, that when they found him at the crash site he was already unconscious and hasn't woken up since. It's Carolina who tells the nurse to leave him alone for a minute. It's Carolina who puts a silent hand on his shoulder when the crying starts. It's Carolina who exits without comment when he tells her to get the fuck out of my room.

It's Carolina who takes the time to close the door so no one will see him break down.

* * *

He gets released three days after waking up. He's been ordered not do any physical training, a command that stings more than it should. He should be up and running, getting better because clearly he's not good enough now. He never was.

Whatever happens to Wash, this time, is his fault.

He spends all his time sitting at the grey soldiers side, tracing small patterns across the back of his hand. He talks, never stops, just mundane stories about his life and childhood, ignoring the way his breath catches in his throat. He talks until he caves in on himself, pleading with the still figure to wake up, you can't do this now I was supposed to protect you.

And when Tucker leaves that building for the first time in what must have been months, the first words out of his mouth are "Let's run some drills." He wonders if this is what Wash felt like, drowning in his own, inescapable suffering. And if this is what it is to a be a soldier, he takes back everything he said about wanting this.

About thinking this was better.

He thinks about what he'd say, if Wash woke up. What he might do. But, honestly? How could he know? He's changing, something in him is shifting to fit into a whole new figure.

He still loves him. Of course he does. It's such a part of who he is, of who he can be. It hurts, god, it hurts, but didn't he expect this? It's always Wash, Agent fucking Washington and his stupid sacrifices. Why did he have be such a goddamn hero all the time?

Maybe, just maybe, if he hadn't been such a noble person Tucker wouldn't have fallen in love with him. Maybe he would be here, right now, laughing with all his idiot friends. Maybe this could've gone a whole different way.

Maybe they could've done it better.

* * *

He can't help but think how Wash looks like a corpse, cold and pale and unresponsive, freckles dark against his skin. Can't help but imagine his eyes, cobalt blue clouded with death and deterioration.

He feels like he might be dying, too. Just in a different way.

But he keeps talking, keeps sounding alive in the hopes that somewhere deep down Wash can hear him. Can register the desperation behind the voice that tells him he needs to open his eyes now, to come back to me you fucking jackass I need you.

Bottom line? You absolute failure, Lavernius Tucker.

He just hopes failure isn't something he has to live with forever.


End file.
